Bad Day, Huh?
by Belinda Roddie
Big truck bore down on me
as I crossed the street. Its steel buck teeth
looked ready to chew me up into tiny
little pieces. Driver cussed up a storm,
flung his finger to the heavens, and rumbled
away before God could tell him, "Dude,
that was rude as fuck."
I made it to the library an hour later
with no other incident on or near the road.
Played a game of chess with a homeless guy
and really the only person I could call a friend.
Called himself Mister Thunder. But he wasn't
loud, and he didn't boom when he walked up
and down stairs. Maybe he snored like
a lawnmower when he found a good place
by the organic food store's parking lot to sleep in.
Girlfriend texted me at six o'five, after
Mister Thunder had checkmated me seven
times. She said we had "something we needed
to talk about." But when I got home, all I found
was "I'm sorry" scrawled on the whiteboard. And
two suitcases were missing. The black ones with
red trim that my grandpa had gifted us after
we moved in together. I wobbled my way to
the couch and sat down because my breath
was short and the air was stale. Heard a big truck
blare its horn outside. Feel free to crush me now,
o' great metal monstrosity of death. And flip me
two birds flying in the sky while I bleed out.